


Failure of Success

by cat_77



Category: Fringe
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter really just wants to go home, or at least the closest thing he can get to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Failure of Success

**Author's Note:**

> Just really wanted to finish/post this before 4.15 totally Josses it all. Likely AU from the end of 4.14 forward.
> 
> * * *

Home. He said it with such certainty, like he actually knew where it was or how the hell to get there. He barely knew where he was now; let alone how to get back to a different universe or, more precisely, a different timeline that formed a different universe.

His head filled with images of fractals and probabilities as he managed to hail a cab in the now truly pouring rain and hope the guy only overcharged him a little to find his way back to the house he was staying at, the house that was his, yet not.

He was exhausted and ached in places he really felt he should not ache, not the least of which was his head, but he knew he was working within a limited window of opportunity and so he really needed to get a move on. The medics would need to look Olivia over and would more than likely keep her overnight for observation, especially with the cryptic little note he had sent Broyles about what drugs she would need. It should be enough to lead to blood tests at the very least and, calculating in time for both the results to get back and for her to get some sleep, gave him a little bit of padding for what he needed to do.

He smelled like old warehouse and sweat, so he stripped off his filthy clothing and rinsed the worst of it off with a quick shower. He shoved a sandwich into his mouth and filled a thermos with coffee and set off again before the rain even had time to decide if it was going to get worse or pitter out.

Another cab brought him to Harvard and the guard barely blinked at Peter wandering in at such a weird hour, nor did he bother checking the backpack slung over a still aching shoulder. Peter poked his head in on Walter and hoped he would find him sound asleep but, like most things that had to do with Walter, things did not go quite according to plan.

“Peter?” Walter asked. His eyes reflected the light from the doorway as he tried to blink himself fully awake.

“Shh, it’s okay, Walter,” Peter tried to assure him. He stepped further into the room and noticed the lab coat draped haphazardly over a chair, I.D. badge poking out of the pocket. He palmed it easily enough as he walked by and crouched down beside the man that would be his father as he said, “Just thought you might want to know we found Olivia, safe and sound.”

Walter scoffed. “I highly doubt she is truly safe and sound considering she was abducted and held in places unknown for nefarious purposes,” he countered.

Peter conceded the point, but offered, “True, but she’s safe now and that’s what matters, right?” He sat down on a corner of the thin mattress so his shaking legs would not give his exhaustion away. “She had been dosed with cortexiphan, but not by Nina, at least not the Nina Broyles held at the FBI. It was David Robert Jones and his very own version of the good Ms. Sharp.”

“Which Nina is the real Nina?” Walter mused. He did not seem surprised in the least that she had been duplicated, which really said something about their state of life. “It could be either, or it could be neither. What if he made multiple copies of her to carry out his plans? To distract from one while the other carried out his plans. Then again, she always could be a conniving bitch when she wanted to be, so it’s entirely possible she was in on it from the beginning, duplication and all.”

“Well, Broyles still has tabs on one and the other crossed over to the other side, so there’s not much we can do here other than warn Walternate they’re back in his people’s hands,” Peter shrugged. It was a question on his own mind, though he did not want to dig into it deeper just yet, having more important things to deal with and a limited timeframe to do so.

“You will warn them, right?” Walter asked, uncharacteristically concerned for those he purported to hate. “He may not want anything to do with Fauxlivia, but if he were to try to go after dear, sweet Astrid with her mathematical skills, both worlds would be a darker place.”

Peter smiled at how easily the truth of the matter came out, which is why it hurt more than a little to be deceiving Walter despite the necessity of it. “I’ll let them know,” he promised.

That seemed enough for Walter, who lay back down and pulled the covers just right. Peter stood to leave but paused at the doorway as Walter bade, “Goodnight, Peter.” He wondered why it sounded so much like a goodbye, at least within his own mind.

He walked back out to the lab and set up his bag down on one of the counters. He knew Walter was just as likely watching him as he was sleeping, so he made sure to walk over to the computer to send a message to the other side. He heard the creak of the floor from the other room that told him his suspicions were correct, and then the sound of Walter settling back in after repeating his usual nightly routine.

He did send the message, but it was not quite what Walter had intended. It warned of David Robert Jones, but requested a meeting with Walternate, phrased in a way that the other version of his father would know there was far more going on than a simple debriefing. The clock now officially ticking, he set to work.

First he needed to delete both that message and Olivia’s incoming message to try to keep Peter in the lab when he visited in the morning until she had time to talk to him. He had no idea how she had gotten her hands on a phone or email, but did appreciate her tenacity. Those taken care of, he also uploaded a program that would prevent any further emails from reaching their destination for at least twenty-four hours, and that was taking into account Astrid’s amazing computing abilities. 

That done, he reached for the true reason why he even needed to go back to the lab in the first place. The interface with the machine was in working order, but not yet perfected. He tweaked what he knew needed to be tweaked, but did not have time to fully try it out. He ran what diagnostics he could and everything looked in the clear but, really, there was great deal of difference between an interface working in lab conditions and an interface working when hurriedly plugged into a machine that traversed times and realities.

The coffee was long gone by the time the bright hues of the rising sun glinted off the lab windows, as was the cold Chinese left in the fridge and more than a few red vines. It had been next to the container of the sweets that he had found Walter’s real security card, which made him question what the hell was attached to the lab coat, but he figured it was enough that he had the real thing, at least for now.

He slid the interface into his backpack and left the thermos on the counter, the weight difference slight enough that the guard should not notice the drag against the fabric of the bag. He nodded to the guard again on the way out and caught another cab and pretended he did not see Astrid walking up the way and pretended his glance out the back window of the cab was not potentially his last chance of seeing her ever again.

The trip to Ellis Island seemed excruciatingly long. He paid the exorbitant price for the cab ride to the ferry in cash, and grabbed a pastry and a coffee before the last leg of his journey. He texted Astrid to say that yes, he had been in the lab last night to check in with Walter, and that he would likely be back in the afternoon after he slept. She texted back telling him to get some rest and that there was not much he would be able to do anyway as the computer system was hosed. She also advised him Olivia should be released either that afternoon or the next morning and that she really wanted to talk to him. A glance at the fourteen waiting messages from the woman in question told him that was an understatement of epic proportions.

He closed his eyes for a moment and thought of her, of his Olivia, of the Olivia that this one was so desperate to become. He truly hoped that Walter was wrong, that he was not projecting his want for his Olivia onto this one, that whatever leftover energy he had from crossing to this parallel world was not changing her in ways she had no control over. He was fairly certain that it was the cortexiphan more than anything else; that it was either letting her see glimpses of his reality, or tapping into his memories, or some odd combination of the two. At least that was the hope he was willing to admit to himself.

He forcibly pushed those thoughts to the side, and did the same with the thoughts of Fauxlivia and the child he never knew, the child that no longer existed because someone somewhere thought a little boy changed the laws of physics and time. The lingering question of why those bald headed bastards thought ridding the world of him and that boy entirely would fix things instead of him continuing on with his Olivia and having a child of their own would haunt him until his dying day though, and he held it close even as he tucked it into a corner of his mind for safekeeping and eternal dwelling upon at a later date.

For now, there were more important things to dwell upon, like whether or not he was going to survive the next few minutes, or be tossed into a cell and trapped in this version of reality for the rest of his apparently unnatural life.

He pulled out the ID that Broyles had given him first, determined to use Walter’s only as a last resort. He was ushered in to the first layer of security, and then the second. He waited patiently while the uniformed man in the tiny little room looked up his clearance, and was not surprised when he was told, “I have nothing from Agent Broyles authorizing this cross, sir.”

The man looked ready to hit the alarm, and Peter knew he had only one chance at this, and really hoped said chance did not end with the need for him to punch the guy. “That’s because Broyles did not authorize this trip,” he told him, earning the expected look of confusion. “Walternate, er, Secretary Bishop from the other side requested a debriefing of yesterday’s events.”

He counted to three and tensed in preparation for a fight, even though the other man had relaxed and even grinned somewhat at the nickname for the man that damn near controlled the world on the other side.

“Ah, here it is,” the man said a lifetime later. “It looks like he was not expecting you for at least another hour.”

“Hm, maybe our lines got crossed somewhere,” Peter commented, feeling a small trickle of sweat along his back. He had already used his ID; another hour and Broyles could have someone called to stop him. “Is Agent Dunham there yet? It’s important that at least she hears about what happened to her counterpart on this side as soon as possible, in case someone tries with her.”

The man looked at his screen again and nodded. “She can be down in five minutes, ten tops.” He typed something else and looked up with absolutely no tension and absolutely not noticing Peter’s own. “She said she will entertain you until the Secretary is free, sir.”

Peter smiled, and hoped it seemed real. “Thanks!” he said and started to walk towards the door that would allow him access to another world.

“Just need your hand, sir,” the man called, and Peter tried not to wince. The machine would register his signature and send a message to Broyles even faster than the use of his card.

“Of course,” he said with the same fake grin. He slapped his hand down on the screen and let it scan him, the little light flashing to show acceptance before the door on the other side of the room slid open.

He stepped forward and listened to the door lock behind him, hoping he would have enough time to do what he needed to do before anyone else had to be involved.

When the next door slid open and revealed the area between the worlds, the area that held the machine that had the potential to destroy or save them both, he spared a glance to verify Fauxlivia had not yet arrived. He did not doubt that she would be there shortly though, and both did not want to risk going to against her nor having to actually cause her harm. She may have been a conniving troublemaker of epic proportions in his reality, but this one seemed calmer, more carefree, and she actually truly seemed concerned about Walter and her version of Astrid. He did not want to involve her if he did not have to.

He jammed the card Walternate had given him into the interface behind him, successfully locking out Agent Broyle’s world for the foreseeable future. He then quickly walked over to the other side and jammed a near identical card into that interface; this one something Walternate had not given him but he had designed himself, and hoped it was enough to block interference from that side as well.

That left two startled scientists and a single guard to question him. The guard approached first and Peter played the confused idiot, waving his usual card in front of him as he questioned, “This doesn’t seem to be working, any idea why?”

The guard did not relax, not completely, but loosened the grip on his gun as he replied, “You need someone from whatever side you are trying to access to open it for you. It’s a safety measure to make sure no one sneaks around.”

“Oh,” Peter said, still playing the imbecile. He then punched the man and stole his weapon in as close to a single move as he could manage. He knocked him once over the head with the butt of the rifle and really hoped his plan worked so he did not face assault charges by the end of the day. 

He turned to survey the room and discovered that, of course, there was a second guard, this one in the dark uniform of the other side. This one had apparently been taken more by surprise than the first as he was exiting a tiny room off to the side and adjusting his belt as though leaving a restroom.

The man glanced at the fallen guard and the weapon in Peter’s hand and reached for his own, but Peter was quicker than him by not much more than a second, and he managed to knock him out too with nary a bullet fired. He then turned to the two scientists and crooked a finger.

He was locking the two scientists together around a pylon with the guards’ cuffs when he heard a noise coming from the direction of the door that led to the other side. He was not at all surprised to see Fauxlivia’s face through the little glass-like window, though she seemed surprised that she could not get through the door. She seemed even more surprised when she peered through and saw the state of things in the room around him.

He watched for a moment as she pounded on the glass, and swore he saw her mouth his name though no sound traveled through the barrier. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed back, and he truly was. He had no idea if she would even exist by the time his little adventure was over, nor did he know if the version he knew of her would survive.

That is, if he himself survived.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly and knew there was only one way to tell. He had set everything in motion now, and there was no way to turn back without some pretty dire consequences for himself and pretty much the guarantee he would never get the chance to do anything like this again.

Time moved both too slowly and too quickly after that. He checked the readings on the machine to make sure they had not done anything irreversible to it, and readied the interface. He swiped Walter’s cards to gain full access and keyed in what he hoped was the same information from a lifetime ago. He climber the ladder at the side of the bulky behemoth and could no longer tell what was the pounding of his own pulse, and what was the semi-rhythmic attempts of the security forces trying to break through the doors and the limited defenses he had put in place.

Finally, as he slid the very last piece of the puzzle into place, as he stepped up, interface at the ready, and dared to touch the thing that tossed him away like no more than a rag doll, did the world fall silent.

“Please work,” he whispered, willing it with every fiber of his being. “I just want to go home.”

He opened his eyes at the sound of metal hitting the floor below him and barely registered Fauxlivia and her team breaking through, weapons at the ready. He swore he heard his name, echoing and oh so far away, but it was too late as the machine chose that moment to accept him, to take him, to give him his one chance at making things right.

His body erupted into a world of pain, every fiber of every nerve on fire as bright as the light that streamed around him. He thought of home, of his Walter and his Astrid and, most of all, his Olivia and everything they ever meant to him and everything he ever wanted them to be. He saw them, he swore he saw them, for the briefest and brightest of instances, before they faded, before they washed out into the colors that surrounded him, until they became no more.

He screamed out his frustrations, surprised to actually hear the words until he realized that the pain and the sound and the light had all faded to something tolerable. He did not know when he had closed his eyes, but he opened them now and nearly groaned in disbelief at the scene before him.

He stood in the room where he had so recently before, space and the galaxy and everything it had to offer melding with images of everything he held dear, flashing by, appearing and fading and appearing again, marble-like columns separating and dividing them all, while a man in a neat coat and fedora looked on.

“You have made it here,” the Observer commented in his ever calm, ever measured tone. He cocked his head to the side and then looked away. “It is not enough.”

“It has to be,” Peter tried. “This is all I have left; this is the only chance I have.” He held out his arms to encompass everything and nothing at the same time, and could not help but feel the disconnect between the sensation of his body and the world around him.

“And yet, you will fail,” the Observer said. He sounded almost saddened by the concept.

Peter fought the urge to close his eyes, to give in to the apparently inevitable defeat. “Help me?” he pleaded. Something told him that if anything in this universe, anything in any universe could, it would be the man that stood before him.

“He cannot,” a new voice sounded. Older, gruffer somehow. 

Peter turned his head to see another man, another Observer, enter the room. He thought it was over then, well and truly done. He had made it this far and advised it was not far enough. He had tried everything he had to offer, and failed. If the Observers could not help him, could not at least point him in the right direction, he simply did not know what else was left, what else he could do.

The younger one spoke though, as unconcerned by the pronouncement as he was by the growing stain of blood across his chest. “I shall,” he intoned, and took a single step in Peter’s direction.

Peter did not have time to be grateful, nor did he even have time to question just what this help would entail. He found himself thrown forward into the maelstrom of colors and sounds, sensations and pain, once more.

The images streamed by, but this time certain ones remained; pictures formed and stacked themselves into a sort of three-dimensional, intergalactic album. Some he remembered, having lived through them and experienced them for himself. Others seemed off somehow, near enough to real but just ever-so-slightly changed to fit into the greater whole. He felt his own memories change with them, not overwritten but added to, side by side and enhanced to become the real thing.

He willed himself to help, willed any and all energy he could spare to aid the strange man that helped him, the strange man who he somehow knew gave everything to make this happen.

Soon, too soon, not enough time to rebuild a world, the colors slowed and the pain faded and he heard a voice he would remember to his dying day tell him, “It is done.”

He opened his eyes slowly and blinked away the dark spots amongst the bright lights, and really hoped he was somewhere without marble columns or redheads with weapons pointed in his general direction.

What he saw released a weight from his chest and he let out a breath he barely had known he was holding: He was still within the machine in the space between the worlds, but there were no guns, no weaponry that was not neatly holstered.

Walter stood below him, Astrid at his side. Lincoln was there, dressed in the Fringe Division uniform of the other side, a scarred version of Charlie to one side of him and a glowering Walternate on the other. Most importantly though was Olivia, his Olivia, standing next to Astrid and breathing a visible sigh of relief as her hand idly petted a very slightly rounded stomach and her mouth cursed like a sailor that Peter had dared to try such a thing now of all times.

The machine released him and he collapsed to his knees, dark punctures of red lining each arm in memory of an interface that had disappeared into the ether. Medics came to him and helped him down though he refused to be taken away to a hospital, not yet, not when there were so many other things to verify, so many other things to know.

Olivia helped him sit up even as Astrid chided him to lie down. Walter crowed something and ran to one of the many computers set up along the sides of the room to verify the readings, Astrid assisting upon request. Walternate quirked his lips in what could pass as a smile on a good day, and went off to verify his own findings, Lincoln and Charlie jumping to do what he required.

“Olivia?” Peter asked, unable to fully believe he had succeeded. 

“I’m here,” she assured him.

“She shouldn’t be in her condition though,” Walter called over his shoulder as he typed something and a series of graphs appeared on a screen. “Insisted on coming though, managed to stabilize the machine and save your life, by the way. Astrid, check her blood pressure and try to convince her to go to the hospital with Peter, will you? I’d like to make sure that she, Peter, and my grandchild all survive after expending enough psychic energy to stabilize a bridge between two universes and save at least one of them.”

Walternate’s head turned at that. “Grandchild?”

“Sir,” Lincoln said, suddenly at his side. He looked incredibly eager to help, eager enough to make Peter wonder just what happened that he was privy to despite practically rebuilding the two worlds from the ground up. “Our medical technology far outweighs what they have on their side. There’s a chance we would have the tools at our disposal to help her, especially considering...” Lincoln trailed off, though he had implied enough for the worry to form in the pit of Peter’s stomach.

“Considering our Agent Dunham’s brief experience with motherhood,” Walternate finished for him, and did not sound pleased by the implication. Peter wondered if he had known of this whatever-it-was in advance, and if he had done anything to try to save both her and the baby. He also wondered if the “brief experience” meant the attempts had failed, or that she simply had not had much time in her new role.

Peter knew he owed Olivia an explanation, and more than just that his affair with her alternate self had produced a child, whether or not that child had survived. For now though, he turned a questioning glance in the direction of the men from the other side.

“Our Liv is at home recuperating,” Charlie assured him. 

“And probably pissed that she’s not here,” Lincoln added.

Behind him, both of the Broyles, whom Peter had missed during his initial assessment, tried to glare in his general direction, but the agent simply shook them off as if used to the sentiment. 

“I’m fine,” Olivia insisted from his side. He could see the fine lines of stress around her eyes though, the way she looked at him with unspoken questions, and knew she was not completely there but close enough for it to count for now.

“Liv?” he pressed, and she quirked her lips in response.

“Okay, so I’m tired and have a headache and could use a drink but we both know that’s out of the question for the near future so I’ll settle for a sandwich and maybe a pillow,” she relented. She looked to Peter, concern for his wellbeing writ in her eyes, and added, “I just really want to go home.”

He smiled and resisted the urge to tell her that he was already there.

There were still debriefings to be had, and snipping and sniping and animosity the destruction wrought across two universes and the lives lost or changed that would never be the same again, but there was also hope and healing and the images of places sealed in Amber melting away to reveal life whole and renewed. Most importantly, there was home, and he was just grateful at the possibility that he might finally be there.

That night, after check-ups and tests and blood draws, after promises that he would write up everything in detail about what he went through and that meant both in the machine and in the various realities he had experienced, he curled up beside Olivia, the one he was increasingly convinced truly was his Olivia, and wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. 

They had verified she was fine and that the baby was fine and that, all things going as planned her due date was still mid-September and the crossing of time and space at least psychically had not changed that. He had asked her questions only his Olivia would know the answers to and she responded readily enough until she told him he would not get another word out of her until he explained his apparent fascination with her past. They had stayed up far too late discussing everything, but had been promised at least a day of rest save for another tear in the universes, and, for now, both seemed content to be where they were.

“I’m home,” he whispered into the blonde strands of her hair that tickled his nose.

“Yes, you are,” she agreed with content sigh. She wrapped her own hand atop of his and squeezed it slightly. “Now shut up so we can get some sleep.”

He chuckled and burrowed closer, determined to do just that.

Outside his window, on the street below, a man picked up his suitcase, adjusted the fedora on his bald head, and walked on.

 

End.


End file.
